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Novelist Katherine Anne Porter once stunningly observed that "all our lives we are preparing to be somebody or something even if we don't do it consciously. And the time comes one morning when you wake up and find you have become irrevocably what you were preparing all this time to be. Lord, that could be a sticky moment…."
My sticky moment came recently when I was forced to admit that my life lacked adventure -- not purpose, not love and certainly not stability. (I've been married to the same man for 23 years, I've lived in the same, albeit heavily renovated, house for 21 years, and I've done the same work -- writing -- all my adult life.)
Yet the list of what I haven't done staggers me: despite some travel, I have not really explored the world. I have not physically challenged myself nor have I spiritually enriched myself by, say, meditating atop a mountain. All around me are women -- many, like me, with grown children -- running marathons, dancing their hearts out, wilderness canoeing, floating in hot-air balloons, journeying to faith healers, rope-climbing, skydiving and going on safari.
So what's with me, I wondered. Was I so complacent that I felt no need for anything more challenging than white-water window shopping and a latte with friends? Was I risk averse? Or, even worse, did I lack imagination?
Growing feathers
One day, while driving with my mother and son, I surprised even myself: "I'm thinking of getting my pilot's licence," I declared. You would think I had announced plans to be a lap dancer. "You're not!" said my mother in horror. My son shook his head violently and, back home, my usually supportive husband could not resist joking about being up in the air with a woman who loses everything in her purse. (Now where did I put that flight plan?)
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